Man's Best Friend
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: Tim must make a difficult and heart-breaking decision. Minor character death.


The alarm blared and Tim opened his eyes. He'd been awake for the last two hours, just lying in bed, thinking. It all felt so surreal. How did you get out of bed and go about your business when you knew a good friend was going to die that day?

Apparently you did it by going through your everyday, normal routine. Tim did just that, showering, brushing his teeth, and combing out his hair. He walked into the bedroom and began getting dressed. Outside the sky was dark and overcast. Thunder rumbled in the distance.

It was very befitting.

He walked out and saw Jethro lying on the floor, breathing softly. A lump formed in the back of Tim's throat.

"Come on, boy," he said softly. He knelt down beside the dog and gently petted him. Jethro opened his bleary eyes and looked up at his master. His tail didn't wag as usual, though. His tail hadn't really wagged in a while.

Tim left the dog there and began making breakfast. He made two servings of bacon; one for him and one for Jethro. He didn't usually give is dog people food (maybe a bit here and there), but considering the circumstances there was no reason not to. What's the worst it would do? "You've earned this, buddy," he said as he dropped the greasy bacon slabs into Jethro's bowl.

Jethro gently rolled onto his stomach and slowly got to his feet. It took him a long time to get up these days. He struggled with it.

Once he was standing, he walked carefully to his bowl. He sniffed the food and then began licking it at. He didn't gobble it up the way he would have in the past. He slowly ate it, as though savoring each bite.

Tim fixed himself a plate of bacon and toast, but found he couldn't eat, so he downed a glass of orange juice instead.

Having finished the breakfast, Jethro ambled to where Tim sat and gently nuzzled against his hand. Tim responded by petting Jethro, rubbing his hand along the canine's head. Tears rimmed along the bottoms of his eyes, but he wouldn't let them fall.

It was 10:00 am. He couldn't put this off any longer.

"Want to go for a walk, boy?" Tim asked, grabbing the leash from its place. Jethro looked up with interest, but he didn't jump up and down excitedly as he used to. Tim clipped the leash to his collar and grabbed his coat.

He still had time, so he took Jethro for a quick walk around the block. Jethro hobbled now more than he walked and sometimes he begin veering off in another direction, forcing Tim to pull at the leach and keep him on track. The dog's mind just wasn't what it had been.

"Time to go," he announced as they neared his car. He opened the passenger side door and helped Jethro onto the seat. In the past he would have thought twice about letting the dog shed hair all over his leather upholstery, but today he didn't even give it a second thought. He gave Jethro a treat to calm him and then slid behind the wheel.

* * *

The nurse greeted him at the front desk. When he explained why he was there, she smiled sympathetically before leading him and Jethro into a back room. "You can wait here with Jethro. The doctor is still with another patient, but she'll be in soon."

Tim managed to muster up something close to a smile. "Tell her to take her time."

Jethro looked up at Tim expectantly. He knew something was going on, especially since Tim was now starting to cry.

"Can't believe it," he muttered as he ran his hand along Jethro's back. "How the hell did I become so attached to a dog that practically killed me the first time we met? And here I am crying over this?" He ran the heel of his hand over his eyes and sniffled. "You're just some stupid, drooling dog," Tim whispered in a choked voice. He pulled Jethro against him, burying his face into the dog's fur. "But you're _my_ stupid, drooling dog."

He could feel Jethro panting against him, shaking as he stood there. The arthritis made it difficult for him to support the weight of his body. The disease had made tufts of hair fall from his body, leaving raw bald spots all over his body. It had also made him lose weight at an alarmingly quick pace, leaving him nothing but skin and bones.

A dog who had once been a big, strong canine who could take down an intruder was now a frail dog who could barely stand on his own.

The door opened and Tim quickly wiped his eyes. It was the nurse. She smiled and pretended she hadn't seen him crying. "I'm going to go ahead and take him to get an IV now so that the doctor can administer the sedatives when she gets here."

Tim nodded. "Is there anywhere I can get some water?"

She directed him toward a water cooler as she took Jethro's leash. Tim poured a small cup and downed it, then another which he also downed. No matter how much he drank, it didn't help the lump go down. It wasn't so much Jethro dying that bothered him, though that didn't help. He'd always known he would most likely outlive Jethro. No, what bothered him was the fact that he was the one making the choice to end his dog's life. Even though he knew Jethro was in pain and that he hadn't truly been happy in a long time, he couldn't help but feel guilty, like he was somehow doing Jethro a disservice. What if Jethro _was_ happy? What if he wasn't in as much pain as he and the doctors thought? What if it wasn't the right time? What if Jethro wasn't supposed to die yet?

When the nurse returned Jethro to the room, the dog had an IV sticking out of his right paw. It was being held there by a bright purple bandage.

"You'll be happy to know he was very brave. He didn't even cry when I stuck it in," the nurse told him with a playful wink.

"Thank you," Tim said, taking the leash. He certainly wasn't feeling very brave at the moment.

Jethro carefully climbed on the couch with a lot of help from Tim. Jethro settled down and put his head on Tim's knee. Tim, in turn, began absently scratching his ears. The room was silent, though beyond the door Tim could hear the barking of other dogs.

How does one choose to end a life, especially the life of a dear friend? How does one just nod and say do it, let some doctor come in and stop his heart? Would he be able to live with this decision he'd made?

It thunder outside again. The rain was starting to pour.

The door opened and a tall, thin woman with a kind face stepped in. She smiled and knelt down beside the couch. "Hello, Jethro," she said in a soft tone. "I know it's been painful for you these last few months. And I'm sure it's been hard on you as well," she added, looking up at Tim.

He nodded.

"I know it probably won't help, but I want you to know that you're making the right decision.'

He nodded once more.

The doctor pulled out a filled syringe and placed it in the IV. "This is a mild sedative. It should put him to sleep fairly quickly. I'll be back in a moment."

As she predicted, it wasn't long before Jethro closed his eyes and lay still. His only movement was his stomach expanding and collapsing with each breath he took. Soon, that movement would cease as well.

She returned, this time with another syringe. "This is another sedative and it will put him to sleep." She didn't need to clarify the difference between the sleep that one would put him in and the sleep the first one had put him in. "When the heart stops, there will be some muscle spasms, particularly his diaphragm. You may see his stomach expand, but it won't be him breathing. He'll be gone. Are you ready?"

With tears in his eyes, Tim nodded again. As the doctor administered the sedative, he leaned down and kissed the top of Jethro's head. "Goodbye, boy. I'll miss you."

Soon, the breathing stopped completely.

* * *

Tim drove home as if on auto-pilot, but he didn't go back up to his apartment. He got out of the car, locked it, and then walked in the opposite direction toward a park nearby. It was a park that he and Jethro used to go to. He would unclip Jethro's leash and let him chase the birds and squirrels while he sat on the bench. This time he sat on the bench, but there was no dog there to chase the other animals.

The rain was pouring down on him now, pelting him and soaking through his clothing. Was this God's way of saying he was angry at Tim for what he'd just done? Was Jethro supposed to have lived for another few years? Had he just made a terrible mistake?

Probably. He was the team screw-up, right?

"Tim?"

He didn't look up. He knew that voice.

"He's gone, Abby."

Tim felt as she sat down beside him on the bench.

"If you've come to yell at me some more I can guarantee that you can't make me feel any worse than I already do."

When Tim had made the decision, no one had taken it as hard as Abby. In a rage of tears she had shouted at him that he was only doing it to spite her and that he was holding a grudge against Jethro that was two years old. She had stormed away from him in a rage and nothing—not even Gibbs—could placate her.

"I'm sorry," she said in a strained tone. "I know I said some unkind things to you this past week."

"Unkind doesn't even begin to describe it."

"You're right. I was just angry, but not at you. I was angry at the situation. I was upset and I said things that I didn't really mean."

He waited for her to say more, but she didn't. Finally, Tim turned to look at her. She was dressed in her usual black garb and held her usual black parasol. It did little to shield her from the rain, though.

"It wasn't an easy choice for me," he told her with tears in his eyes.

"I know."

"In fact, it was the hardest one I've ever had to make. And I didn't do it to spite you or because I begrudged him or anything."

"I know."

"I did it because…because I couldn't bear to see him in pain anymore! That disease was eating him up, it was making each day a struggle to get through."

"Tim, I know."

But he wasn't trying to convince her anymore. Now his ranting for purely for his own benefit. "Jethro was never going to get better, he was just going to survive day by day. It wasn't going to be a life worth living for him. Nothing would ever improve. He'd slowly get worse, just lying around, wondering when the pain would stop. I'm his owner! My job is to care for him! If he's in pain I need to do something about it! I need to keep him from being in pain, even if it means making a difficult decision! Right?" he asked, his voice now weak as he tried to hold back tears. "He knows that I loved him with all my heart, doesn't he? That I only did this because I thought it was for the best. He knows that, doesn't he, Abby?"

She bit her lip as tears streamed down her cheeks. Then she reached out and pulled Tim into a hug, pressing her own tear-streaked face into his shoulder. "I'm sure he does," she said as her breathing became shallow. "I know he does, Tim. I'm so sorry…I know that you did what you had to do, that it was the right thing. I'm sorry that I didn't make it any easier on you by acting the way I did. I know you did the best you could…the best anyone could. It was just his time."

Tim pulled her closer against him as his own body racked with sobs. "I just feel so horrible, like I made a terrible mistake."

"No, Tim, you didn't make a mistake." She wiped away a tear. "It was exactly what you should have done."

The two sat together on the bench, letting the rain wash over them. And together they cried over their fallen friend.

* * *

"…and let us remember Jethro in his happy days," Abby said, twirling her parasol. "He went peacefully and with his owner beside him."

The two were standing beside a small pond in the park where Jethro often liked to play. Abby had suggested a small memorial service for the dog and Tim had agreed. It seemed only befitting and he knew it would give him some peace of mind.

"God, please watch over him as he enters your Kingdom, as we know he will. Please don't be too angry if he pees all over your garden. He is, after all, a dog."

Tim managed to laugh at that.

"Please keep him happy until the day he and Tim are reunited…which I hope is a long, long, long, long, long, long time from now."

"I hope so too, Abby."

She smiled and gave his hand a squeeze. "Amen."

"Amen," Tim echoed.

And they remained there, staring into the water. It rippled with every raindrop that struck it.

"Tim?"

"Yeah, Abbs?"

"The rain is starting to make me cold. Are you ready to go home?"

He ran a hand along his face. Whether he was brushing away tears or raindrops he didn't know, but he suddenly felt better. Not happy, but better. Like a weight had been lifted from his conscience. He knew the decision had been the right one, even if it had meant saying goodbye to a dear friend.

"Yeah, Abbs…let's go home."

* * *

**AN:** This story was written in memory of my family dog who was put down yesterday.


End file.
